


A Fallen Angel's Prometheus

by IneffableDoll



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Acts of Kindness, Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fallen Angels, Forgiveness, Healing, Hurt Crowley (Good Omens), Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Literary References & Allusions, Other, References to Frankenstein, Self-Loathing, Soft Aziraphale (Good Omens), Unforgiveable that's what I am
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:14:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,011
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23096176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IneffableDoll/pseuds/IneffableDoll
Summary: Crowley isn’t much of a book person, so when Aziraphale discovers he’s read “Frankenstein,” he’s extremely excited. Crowley is decidedly less so, as a book about a neglectful creator and an unforgivable creature hits a little too close to home.Realizations are had, healing occurs.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 107





	A Fallen Angel's Prometheus

**Author's Note:**

> Frankenstein is one of my favorite books, Good Omens one of my favorite shows. So, was this written entirely to be self-indulgent by combining them into one?  
> Oh, absolutely.

It should come as a surprise to exactly No One Whatsoever that Aziraphale loved to talk about books.

A lot.

It didn’t bother Crowley any. Sure, he rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically and complained loudly whenever the angel got ranting about something from some literary text. But it was practically a formality at this point; even Aziraphale knew there was no heat behind Crowley’s melodrama. So, Aziraphale still talked about books, and Crowley still listened more than he’d ever let on to save face.

But he never participated, ever.

Until one day, he did. And it was very much by accident.

“Oh, I really can’t understand it a bit,” Aziraphale was complaining. A glass of wine held aloft that he’d long since forgotten about found itself half flung aside with the angel’s dramatic gesture, not a drop miraculously spilt. “That isn’t how he's portrayed at all in the novel!”

It was October, which meant two things: rain (a given for all the months in London) and Halloween. This, by extension, meant one of Aziraphale least favorite things was afoot (this probably should have been all the occult stuff that people got up to, but he honestly didn’t mind that as it was basically harmless fun). No, as usual, it was literary inaccuracies in pop culture, more specifically, a lot of depictions of Frankenstein’s Creature that were deeply and never-endingly offensive to Aziraphale’s sensibilities.

“I mean, really,” Aziraphale continued fervently. “Bolts? And why is he green? Where, exactly, in the text, is the creature ever described as having screws in his head? He’s expressly made to look perfect, so why is there visible stitching?”

Crowley watched on silently, as usual, and took a long sip of wine.

Aziraphale offered a long-suffering sigh. “Worse than any of that, though, is how his character has been utterly botched. Not only is he deeply intelligent, they make him out to be a monster, but he’s not, really.”

“What?” Crowley found himself immediately drawn out of his usual listening-to-Aziraphale-rant daze, leaning forward with sudden energy. “Of course, he is. He killed four people, and that’s not including Justine.”

“But it’s more complex than that, Crowley! Can’t you see-” He stopped very suddenly as his eyes went wide and he focused his gaze on the demon in disbelief. “Wait. What did you say?”

Crowley cursed his mouth for opening, and also for existing. “Nothing. Carry on.”

“No. No no no no, you don’t, my dear!” Aziraphale’s face lit up like a flame. “You’ve read _Frankenstein: The Modern Prometheus_ by Mary Shelley!”

“Nah. Just...you know. Know about it.”

Aziraphale completely ignored this. “You’ve read _Frankenstein_! Why didn’t you tell me? We could’ve discussed it!”

Crowley shrugged involuntarily and stared into his drink, giving it a light swirl and watching the momentum fade gradually.

Here’s the thing: Crowley wasn’t much of a book person. He understood the logic behind why it appealed so to the angel, but it just wasn’t something that stood out to him. He didn’t need the help of a book to get lost in imagination, after all – that was sort of his thing, as it were. Besides, alphabets changed so frequently that it was such a hassle to deal with, already having to keep up with the evolving spoken tendencies of language. Seriously, leave England for a couple of centuries and now the syntax of English is unrecognizable! He was more into music, into actionable things, than ink on paper. 

However, that didn’t mean he never read anything. Over the millennia, he picked up a few pieces of writing now and again, if something popular stood out to him or Aziraphale talked about one a lot (he’d never admit that last one). Maybe once a century or two, he’d read a novel, or play, or what have you. But only if he was sure it was one that he’d like.

In 1818, he heard about a book that ended up becoming his least favorite.

Aziraphale had gotten up some time between Crowley’s musings and came back shortly thereafter with – of course – a first edition printing of the book in question. It was in remarkably good condition and Aziraphale sat down again with a huff to look over the copy reverently, looking positively pleased. Crowley stared at the book as though it was a beast that might bite him, and perhaps it had.

“I only met her briefly,” Aziraphale lamented. “She did live in London, after all, but those were busy years and I was rather all over the place.”

Crowley nodded absently, but still chose to remain in bitter silence.

Aziraphale noted this and shifted in his seat, placing the book carefully on a table to his left. “Crowley, please tell me, is something amiss? I don’t see why you would hide this from me.”

“The Creature _is_ a monster,” Crowley replied suddenly and scathingly, still staring into his glass. “All he ever did was hurt people.”

Aziraphale smiled and happily entered the debate, clearly excited at the prospect. He was always trying to involve Crowley in literary discussions. “Hardly! He was a being of compassion, twisted by circumstance! Don’t you remember all his kindnesses to the poor family in the cottage?”

“The cottage he then burnt down after scaring them half-to-death.”

“He was suffering. He lashed out as a result, but Victor was the one who caused that through his selfishness.”

“Victor was powerful,” Crowley pointed out passionately. “He had the ability to create life, to play God, and he was too much of a coward to use it properly.”

“He was a coward,” Aziraphale agreed, “but only because he refused to look his creation in the eye.”

“This creation was an abomination! He terrorized people and killed those who didn’t deserve it, just for petty revenge on someone else! Just for being close to him!”

“Petty? Victor made his life torture by leaving him alone to die, blaming him for his violent ways when he himself had done nothing to nurture the natural good.”

“There was no natural good, angel!” Crowley said scathingly. “The Creature was abandoned because he was unforgivable! That’s what I am!”

Aziraphale pulled back very suddenly as though burnt, and Crowley felt the color drain from his face.

“What...what _he_ is,” Crowley correctly lamely, closing his eyes.

~

He remembered the first time he’d read _Frankenstein_. It was the same year it was published, and he had curled up in a place where no one might stumble across a reading demon: the basement of an abandoned cabin. He was a slow reader, typically, but he finished it in one day, in one sitting. Then he read it again, and again. He did not move for four days and read the book thrice as many times.

When he finally stopped, it was night, so he exited the decrepit building and stood under the cosmos. He turned back to a page from the second volume, chapter three, and he muttered aloud to the sky.

“’How can I move thee?’” he said imploringly to the stars. “’Will no entreaties cause thee to turn a favourable eye upon thy creature, who implores thy goodness and compassion?’” He scoffed a moment at those words but continued. “Believe me, I was benevolent; my soul glowed with love and humanity: but am I not alone, miserably alone? You, my creator, abhor me; what hope can I gather from your fellow creatures,” – Aziraphale flashed across his mind – “who owe me nothing?”

The universe was quiet. Crowley dropped the book in the dirt. He returned for it after a couple of miles of angry fast-walking and found that it was perfectly clean.

He left it outside a random library.

How was he to know Aziraphale would end up with it, would keep it and cherish it?

Only a cruel God would deign to arrange something like that.

~

Back in the present, Aziraphale’s face was unreadable. A collection of emotions danced across it, almost too quick to decipher: confusion, understanding, contemplation, concern, and finally…pity.

“You’re not-”

“Forget it, angel,” Crowley interrupted immediately before downing his drink and standing, adjusting his sunglasses. “Not important. It’s a dumb book, anyway.” Crowley made to leave, feeling utterly and completely done with the thick tension of the room, but wasn’t halfway to the door when the angel spoke again.

“You’re wrong,” Aziraphale said measuredly, voice steady and sure. “The Creature did terrible things, but I don’t believe he wanted to, because he was kind, first. I think he was hurt, and he was suffering. But he deserved love as much as anyone else did.”

“Ngk.” Crowley knew Aziraphale was no longer talking about Frankenstein’s Creature.

Calmly, Aziraphale asked, “Would you like to hear my favorite passage?”

Crowley turned very slowly but did not meet the angel’s eye.

Aziraphale took that as an affirmative and opened the book to a page marked with a frayed red ribbon; a sign of the wear that page had seen. Then, carefully, he read aloud.

“’Remember, that I am thy creature: I ought to be thy Adam; but I am rather the fallen angel, whom thou drivest from joy for no misdeed. Every where I see bliss, from which I alone am irrevocably excluded. I was benevolent and good; misery made me a fiend. Make me happy, and I shall again he virtuous.’”

By the time Aziraphale finished, he was no longer pretending to read the words he memorized long ago, instead staring openly at Crowley, who mouthed the words in unison.

“I think that Victor should have treated his creation differently, don’t you? He deserved to be happy,” Aziraphale said softly after multiple silent minutes transpired.

“’Cursed be the day, abhorred devil, in which you first saw light,’” Crowley quoted in response as he trained his face to remain neutral and failed completely.

Aziraphale was standing in front of Crowley before the demon had a moment to register the movement. The angel carefully took both of Crowley’s hands into his, as though to keep him from running off. Crowley couldn’t trust the expression he was making, with Aziraphale looking at him with every kindness drawn together from each corner of the universe.

“Victor Frankenstein may have regarded the Creature poorly, Crowley,” Aziraphale practically whispered. “And he never did forgive the Creature, nor himself, for their misdeeds.”

Crowley gave the tiniest of nods.

Aziraphale took a deep breath and smiled warily. “So…I forgive him in the creator’s stead.”

Crowley realized he had been holding his breath only when he released one, long and shaky, built of trembling air that did naught but tighten the clench of the knot in his throat. He wouldn’t cry. Demons don’t cry. Demons aren’t supposed to cry. They can’t cry, they shouldn’t, wouldn’t, weren’t allowed.

And they couldn’t be forgiven.

Aziraphale, ever the Victorian dandy, had a handkerchief ready to catch the single drop, which sizzled as it passed over the snake marking on Crowley’s cheek, flesh seeming to burn away under the salty rebel. Sunglasses hid his eyes from view, but Aziraphale seemed to know what they were saying, anyway.

The angel led Crowley back to the sofa, where he sat numbly, stiffly, with none of his usual sprawl. For a long time, they sat beside each other in silence – not tense, but not quite comfortable. Crowley’s head was a mass of clusters, of beliefs and emotions and self-loathing. He was a fallen angel – a demon, a being of pure evil. By definition, something so despicable, so horrid and disgusting, so extremely malicious and revolting, that God Herself could not bring Herself to forgive him.

And yet.

Here he was.

Forgiven anyway.

It took a long time, though neither kept track of exactly how long. The earth rotated at the same, usual pace, and Crowley took his time. After what felt like both a blink and an eternity, he leaned back into the couch with a sigh, and Aziraphale watched him carefully.

Crowley met the angel’s eye.

“Thanks. For…forgiving him.”

Aziraphale smiled gently.

“You’re welcome, my dear.”


End file.
